by Hilary Boyd
Tired of listening to the tedious treadmill in her brain, she got dressed and went out. It was still bitterly cold, but at least there was some fitful sunshine between the February clouds.
*
‘Flora?’ Prue was standing on the doorstep – immaculate in one of her black Donna Karan trouser suits – hugging her arms to her body in the chilly wind as Flora emerged from the basement.
‘Hi.’
‘Come in for a moment will you?’
The invitation was decidedly unfriendly, but she went up the steps. Her sister didn’t ask her through to the kitchen, just stood with her in the gloomy black and white marble-tiled hall. It had been nearly two weeks since they’d spoken. Flora thought she’d lost weight; her face was drawn, set in angry lines.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’ she asked.
‘Dorothea died last week.’
Prue raised her eyebrows briefly. ‘Oh … Anyway, I thought you ought to know, Philip and I are having some time apart.’
‘Really?’ Flora was surprised. She thought Philip was more sanguine, more realistic about his wife.
‘It’s not him. I’m the one who’s asked for it.’ Her sister shook her head. ‘We both said some very bad things to each other over this Fin business. Neither of us can get past it at the moment.’
Flora didn’t know what to say.
‘He wants me to be something I can’t be.’
‘Is this about fidelity?’ Flora wondered for the first time if Fin was the only one. And if Prue had foolishly mentioned this to her husband in the heat of the moment.
‘Isn’t it always?’ Prue bit off the words, her breathing fast. ‘Isn’t every marital row in the history of the human race about sex? Men are so fucking territorial. Philip thinks he owns me. And he fucking doesn’t.’
‘Where’s he going to go?’
‘Flat in the Temple. Belongs to a judge – some friend of a friend who’s only there one night every three weeks or something. Usual cosy boys’ club bollocks.’ Prue could hardly keep the sneer from her face. It’s as if she’s the victim of Philip’s infidelity, Flora thought, not the other way round. But her sister had always been good at manipulating a situation to put herself in the right.
‘And Bel? What does she know?’
‘Nothing. And I’d like to keep it that way. We’ve just said we’re having a few problems … that we’ll sort it out.’
‘And will you?’
‘Who the fuck knows?’ The anger had been replaced by an artificial nonchalance. ‘Have you got another job yet?’
Flora shook her head.
But her sister was not interested in anything but her own problems at that moment. She just shrugged and looked at her watch. ‘Christ … I’m late.’
Prue was shutting her out, blaming her, ridiculously, for all that had happened. But although Flora found it hard being on the receiving end of such unfair resentment, she was also relieved not to be dealing with the still raw subject of Prue’s relationship with Fin. Every time she was on the verge of phoning Fin, it was the thought of them together that stood in her way, her reluctance compounded by the fact that neither he nor Prue really seemed to understand why everyone was so upset.
*
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live …’
Reverend Jackson’s voice boomed out, ringing around the large church in dramatic echo. The ten or so mourners were seated in the front two rows; Rene, sporting a large black hat, Keith in his three-piece suit, Mary wrapped in a heavy black overcoat, Dominic in dandyish black corduroy and a fedora. Flora shivered as she looked at the coffin.
Footsteps rang on the stone floor and she glanced round, pleased to see Simon Kent making his way down the aisle. She’d thought he wasn’t coming. He chose her pew and sat down next to her.
‘Bloody nithering out there,’ he whispered, squeezing her hand briefly. ‘You OK?’
She nodded, but she wasn’t OK. The last few days she had spent completely alone, hiding under the duvet, unable even to keep her appointment with Cheryl to talk about another job. She felt paralysed with loneliness. She didn’t have one friend she could pour her heart out to; Prue had been her best and only one. She knew she should get up, get out, that lying there could be dangerous for her, pre-empting a slide into real despair that she would find it hard to come back from. But she couldn’t bring herself to move further than the kitchen to make yet another slice of toast, or boil the kettle for yet more tea. It had been touch and go this morning as to whether she could make the effort to get dressed and go to Dorothea’s funeral. But she’d known she had to.
She filed out after the coffin with the others and was greeted by Reverend Jackson’s enthusiastic handshake, his big paws closing round Flora’s cold hand as he beamed his Christian smile. She smiled back mechanically, desperate to get home, back to the safety of the sofa – back to oblivion.
Rene was travelling with the coffin to Mortlake Crematorium, but she didn’t want the others to come. ‘It’ll be quick, Dorothea stipulated no fuss,’ she’d told Flora. The others were going back to the flat, where Keith had organised refreshments.
‘Coming, Florence?’ Keith, who was standing with the doctor, offered her his arm.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll get off home.’
‘Oh, come on. We can’t have a wake without you,’ the porter insisted, grabbing her arm and marching her along the pavement.
‘So d’you think the old girl’s watching us?’ Mary the night nurse glanced heavenwards as she put on the kettle in Dorothea’s kitchen.
Flora actually managed to laugh. ‘I hope so,’ she said, but the flat already felt diminished and lifeless, dank without the heating. There were boxes already in the hall, the big hospital bed had gone, and the furniture in the sitting room was tagged with coloured stickers indicating their destination.
‘Bless her,’ Mary said quietly, as she arranged mugs on a tray.
‘Isn’t Dominic coming?’ Flora asked, as they all stood awkwardly in the hall with their tea. She had waved hello to him in the church, but he’d appeared to ignore her and turn away. She thought perhaps he’d had a row with Rene over the silver bowl and was blaming her. Not that she cared. It was a relief not to have to see the man again.
‘He said he had to get back to work,’ Simon said. ‘He looked upset. But then I suppose he was very close to Dorothea.’
‘Was he?’ Flora queried. ‘I mean, he visited quite often and gushed all over her, but I got the feeling he was just waiting for her to keel over.’
‘Ooh, that’s not very nice, Florence. Not about our very own Prince Charming,’ Keith said. He had had a couple of run-ins with Dominic over his high-handed demands for the porter’s help in carrying his swag to the car.
‘Still, can’t believe what a rubbish deal he got for the Bowman,’ Simon commented. Flora thought he was avoiding her today. He talked mainly to Keith or Mary, and after one cup of tea and a sausage roll, he began his goodbyes. She hoped he would ask for her number, but he didn’t, and she couldn’t find the words to ask him to stay in touch.
*
The next week was the same as the last for Flora. More duvet, more toast, more mind-numbing television, few showers, little sleep. The February weather was particularly dreary, and the small flat permanently in gloom, matching her increasingly despairing reflections. Bel had gone skiing with the school for half-term, Prue didn’t call. Neither did Fin. Flora knew she needed to earn money, and be fit and healthy for the baby, but even these imperatives failed to stir her from her lethargy. Next week, she promised herself. Next week. But the thought of next week – and the week after and the one after that – only brought churning fear, tears and a sense of utter hopelessness.
One morning, as Flora lay and contemplated the dreary prospect of another day by herself, she was aware of a tiny fluttering in her stomach, fleeting and barely perceptible. She stayed
very still, her fingers resting lightly on the small swelling. Nothing happened for an age, but then she felt it again. She held her breath, almost in awe. Her own baby, moving inside her, growing and flourishing through all this misery. It brought her up short. How could she be so indulgent, so utterly selfish? She should be out exercising, breathing in fresh air, eating healthy food, not slumped on the sofa, existing on a diet of toast and tea.
She got herself out of bed quickly, showered, dressed, bundled herself up against the weather, and set off for the park before she could change her mind. She felt dazed at being out, but the late February sunshine was wonderful on her skin. There was even a hint of spring in the purple and white crocuses that poked up around the bottom of some of the trees in the park. She walked for half an hour, then settled in the park café and ordered some scrambled eggs and camomile tea. She opened the paper for the first time in weeks. No one was in the café this early – the mums and babies would arrive later.
Flora glanced up from the paper at the heavy sound of the café’s glass door opening. Her heart leapt. It was Simon Kent. He hadn’t noticed her yet, and she watched his smile light up his handsome face as he ordered a coffee, always so polite, so respectful. She realised how much she’d missed seeing him every day.
He was turning to go, his takeaway coffee in his hand, when he spotted Flora. For a moment his face was inscrutable, she sensed almost a reluctance in his expression, as if he were unwilling to engage with her. But then he smiled.
‘Flora, hello. Didn’t see you there.’ He came over to her table. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
There was an awkward silence.
‘Everything alright with the baby?’
She nodded. She wanted to ask him to sit down, but found herself hesitating.
‘It’s odd, none of you being there to drop in on.’
‘And for me too … join me if you like,’ she said finally.
He hesitated for slightly too long. ‘Umm … OK, I’ve probably got a minute.’ He took his overcoat off and threw it on the spare chair.
‘Are you working again?’
‘Not yet, but I must soon.’
There was that look again, the one that seemed to see more than she wanted him to. ‘You look very pale.’
‘Do I?’ she said with unnatural brightness. Then the effort of the morning overtook her and she felt herself sliding, collapsing into herself, the false energy that had propelled her out of bed and into the park suddenly running dry. ‘I’ve been … not really myself,’ she mumbled, embarrassed under his scrutiny.
‘You must miss Dorothea.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose … yes. I don’t know … it’s everything.’
He didn’t speak, and the silence seemed to stretch between them until it was almost unbearable.
‘Fin and I aren’t together at the moment.’
‘At the moment?’
‘He’s in Scotland.’
Simon was clearly confused, but perhaps wasn’t sure if he should question her further.
‘I think we may have split up.’
‘Really? I’m sorry. But you say “may have”, so it sounds as if there’s hope.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And with the baby …’
‘I can’t stay with him because of the baby,’ she said, hearing her defensive tone and regretting it.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean to imply that.’ He looked baffled by the conversation, but she didn’t know what to say to explain the unexplainable.
For a moment they looked at each other. She’d forgotten how beautiful his eyes were.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better get going. Surgery’s about to start.’
She nodded, wondering where the easy banter that used to exist between them had gone.
They said their goodbyes and he turned to go, looping his coat over his arm as if he didn’t want to take the time to put it on.
‘Simon …’ Flora called after him and he came back. She wanted to ask him to be her friend, to meet her occasionally for coffee or a walk. She wanted to tell him that she really liked him, that she’d missed him. But the words died on her lips. ‘Great to see you,’ she muttered.
‘And you,’ he said, his brown eyes suddenly intense and almost sad.
Flora wandered home, angry with herself for being so tongue-tied with the doctor. All her resolve about getting her life back on track for the sake of the baby had ebbed away, leaving her with no more ambition than to get back under the duvet.
The week stretched on, Flora sliding even further into a paralysed stasis. Part of her felt that it was pointless to move, to eat, to live; pointless to kick against the inevitable despair. But something had to be done. She had to earn money.
*
Cheryl, the owner of the nurses’ agency, sat swinging from side to side in her black high-backed chair, the fuchsia-painted nails of her right hand tapping lightly on the desk top.
‘Obviously you shouldn’t be doing private nursing. Not being pregnant at your age.’ She was fiftyish, overweight, her shoulder-length hair dyed an improbable shade of aubergine. There was no small-talk with Cheryl, everything was businesslike and to the point in the well-run agency.
‘I know. But I have to work. And I’m not qualified for anything else. Please …’ She felt intensely vulnerable under Cheryl’s professional stare.
‘It’s not just your position though, is it? If I send you to a client and you’re suddenly taken ill, or aren’t able to lift or something because of your pregnancy, that person’s care is compromised as much as you are.’
Flora just sat there, unable to work up enough spirit to argue.
Cheryl sighed, her tough manner suddenly dropping away.
‘Listen, there is one possibility, if you’re up for it.’ She paused, her mouth working as she considered her proposition. ‘We’ve been let down by the maternity cover we got in for Kelly. The bloody girl just didn’t come in this week, and no one can contact her. She was useless anyway.’
Flora waited.
‘You know what Kelly does. Books jobs, interviews nurses and carers … it’s not rocket science. But we’ll need someone till July, when Kelly’s supposed to come back.’ She raised her eyebrows when Flora didn’t immediately respond. ‘It’s a desk job. Compatible with pregnancy.’
Flora nodded, realising the gift she’d just been handed. ‘God, yes, thank you, that would be great.’ She paused and repeated, ‘Thank you so much, Cheryl.’
As she headed home, Flora knew she should feel happier. She was immensely grateful for the job, which would start the following Monday and at least solve her financial situation till the baby was born. But the thought of sitting in that dreary, airless Holborn office, under harsh strip lighting for eight hours a day, breathing in Cheryl’s sickly perfume and ringing nurses to find out if they were free to work, was dismal.
This is for the baby, she told herself. But when she got home she just crept back to bed and spent the next few hours in a miserable doze – she often napped during the day now, because at night she was wide awake, her sense of loneliness further enhanced by the conviction that everyone else in the city was snuggled up comfortably with someone else.
*
Flora struggled through her first weeks at the agency and almost died of boredom. Working a twelve-hour shift with Dorothea had gone twice as quickly as eight long hours in that stuffy office. Tina, the only other employee, was in her early twenties and kept up a relentless monologue about boys, clothes, haircuts and how wasted she’d got, as if Flora was a kindred spirit. Flora kept reminding herself that she was very lucky to be working at all, but it didn’t make the time go any faster. By the weekend she was always exhausted. Mary asked her for tea one Saturday. Keith offered a drink. Even Jake texted: wanna margarita yet? But she turned them all down, despite her desperate loneliness; being sociable was an impossibility. She knew she was sliding, that the baby was the only thing between her and des
pair. But as the weeks went on, and February became March, March became April, bringing the Spring, even the baby didn’t seem to be enough.
*
‘Flora?’ It was Rene.
Flora, still half asleep in front of Saturday morning television, had reached automatically for her phone, although most of the time now she avoided all calls. Rene had called three times already this week, but she hadn’t picked up, hadn’t replied, and regretted doing so now.
‘Hello, Rene.’
‘Have I woken you?’
‘No … no. I was just … checking emails.’ She hauled herself upright.
‘I need to have a chat with you. I’ll be at Dorothea’s tomorrow, sorting things out. Could you pop round?’
‘Umm … that might be difficult. I have to meet up with someone for lunch.’ She hoped her lie was convincing. It was hard enough getting herself together for work, without having to go out at weekends too.
‘Right … well, maybe afterwards? I shall probably be there most of the day. Or before?’
Flora knew she wasn’t going to get out of it. ‘OK … can we make it after, then?’
‘Does fourish give you enough time?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
After Rene had hung up, Flora groaned quietly. She’d sounded as if it were urgent, but then Rene always did. What did she want to talk to her about anyway? She probably needed help clearing out the flat so that the grisly Dominic could get his hands on it, she decided. But if Rene were offering a few days’ work over a weekend, she wasn’t in a position to turn it down. She went through to the bathroom and peered at her face in the small mirror. A pale, drear image looked anxiously back at her, heavy dark rings beneath her gold-brown eyes, hair straggling, unwashed and uncut, past her shoulders. I look like a bag-lady, she thought, turning quickly away and putting the shower on before she lost the impetus.
